Long lines trail tautly from the stern
of a dory where two fishermen endure
the work by which they must earn
their sustenance, far from the shore.
The boat rocks on the whitecapped waves,
oars stroke through the darkened sea,
without a thought of watery graves
they row through spray, the men feel free.
They are bound to each other and to the sea!
Unfathomable depths of history own them.
Forebears, parents, the stark immediacy
of play with sisters, brothers, and friends
set the bounds of burgeoning identity.
They have learned the ways of their folk.
Soaked to the bone on the ocean's expanse,
a thousand baited hooks let out behind
for fleshy fish that hold them entranced,
hoping for a plenary from each line,
two fishermen labor with elusive chance.
They have learned the ways of their folk.
DOUGLAS GOLDMAN
Eastern Point Road, Gloucester
